by Mark Teppo
Constansa watched the rectangles of light crawl across the stone floor of her cell. Dimly, she knew that the sun—whose light was coming in through the narrow slits in the ceiling of her cell—could not move that fast across the sky, and she knew that she was in the grip of the divine presence. She would not need to blink or draw breath; she was suspended, held apart from the world that moved around her.
The shafts of light were filled with tiny figures, golden angels twisting slowly as if they were falling through water and not the air. She reached out, her hand pushing them aside, and she felt their tiny kisses. The flutter of their silken wings against her rough flesh. To them, her skin must feel like the stony wall of the cell felt beneath her touch.
There was a piece of parchment on the table. She was not bothered by the fact she could not remember putting it there. Objects appeared and disappeared all the time when she was held apart. The angels in the light pulled her toward the table, and she drifted across the room, sinking onto the stool with a sigh. There was a lump of charcoal on the table, and it glittered in the sunlight, tiny diamonds winking from shallow crevices. She picked it up, letting her fingers explore the shape, and after a few moments, she found how its contours fit best in her hand.
The light drifted across the sheet of parchment, and she laughed at the tiny footprints the angel left on the page. She daubed after some of them, leaving black tracks, and soon she saw the picture she was meant to draw. Her hand began to move faster, connecting the marks.
The shafts of light crawled up the wall, and the shadows that had been hiding in the corners of the room swam back out, gliding along the floor. She closed her eyes, as there was nothing more to see.
Her hand knew what to do.
She felt the divine grip lessening, and her breath caught in her chest. Something akin to a sob bubbled up in her throat, but she pressed her lips closed. She was not quite ready to let it out.
Not until she finished.
Her hand moved faster. The parchment was not very large, and she filled it quickly with her illustration. The top of the sheet was filled with a profusion of lines—a rain of arrows, perhaps, or a storm threatening from heavy clouds. Below, a man knelt. His head was bare, and his frame was covered in tiny circles—as many as there were jagged lines across the top of the sheet.
The man’s eyes were open, and he stared out of the sheet as if he were watching Constansa draw him. Only when she was satisfied with his expression did she start to sketch in the shadow behind him.
V
Harald was waiting for them at the second switchback on the long and winding road up the mountainside. The horses laboriously plodded past the tiny shelf where Harald waited, and once they were all on the next loop of the road, Andreas drew his horse up next to Harald’s.
“What is it?” he asked.
Harald had been the advance scout. Harald pointed across the valley, and Andreas looked over at the ridge. The road climbed up the northern slope from the valley, wound along the top of the flat peak, crossed a sprightly mountain stream, and then wrapped around the other side of the valley before disappearing over the top of the southern ridge. There was a group of horsemen coming through the gap in the southern ridge. Sunlight glinted off metal helmets and shields.
“Do you think they mean us harm?” Andreas asked.
“I think this hill is a bad place to be caught in the open,” Harald said, listing off his concerns. “I think the river is a natural place for an ambush. And I think we were hired because something like this might happen.”
Andreas nodded, counting riders. “Twelve,” he said. It was hard to tell from this distance, but several looked as if they were wearing maille. Shirts, at least. He couldn’t be sure if they were more armored than that.
“More than I care for,” Harald said.
“Aye,” Andreas agreed. He clapped the other man on the shoulder. “Let’s assume they have bad intentions, shall we?”
Harald nodded grimly. “The worst sort of intentions,” he said.
The bridge was only wide enough for one wagon at a time, and there were no guide rails, so each horse had to be carefully led across so none of the wagon wheels slipped off. As the other Shield-Brethren helped Jacobi and his men with the delicate task, Andreas took Saluador and rode on ahead. The man’s size alone would be a useful deterrent.
On the other side of the bridge, the road widened slightly, allowing them to ride abreast. Andreas rode on the outside, and he kept an eye on the slope beyond the road. Close to the bridge, the ridge was well-defined by a rocky spur; as they rode, the land lost its rugged shape and became a tree-covered slope that was too steep for horses. There were breaks in the forest, sections of the road abutted by clusters of boulders and rocky outcroppings.
The sun was warmer and the air was colder, sure signs they had left the lowlands behind. Their horses raised a little dust as they rode; most of the afternoon cloudbursts had dumped their rain before they had reached the mountains.
Andreas and Saluador both carried shields along with riding swords—the shorter one-handed blade more suited to fighting from horseback—and longswords. Saluador had a bow as well, strung but attached to his saddle. It was one thing to be prepared; it was another to ride up to a group of unknown men with an arrow laid across a bow. They both wore maille under their plain habits; their shields were marked with the seal of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae, though they wore no tabards proclaiming the same.
The approaching group of horsemen became less of an organized troop and more of a motley collective the closer Andreas and Saluador got. They carried no standard, and only half the men had shields. Some of the shields sported rampant lions of various sizes, and they were still too far away to make out other heraldic details. They were strung out in a loose pack, which told Andreas that some of them had been in organized cavalry once or twice. “Mercenaries or deserters?” he asked Saluador. “They’re too well equipped to be outlaws.”
“Too organized for mercenaries,” Saluador noted. “If they are, what’s their commission?”
He had a good point. There was no sign of a wagon train or the sense that the company was guarding any one individual within their ranks.
A trio split off from the rest, galloping toward Andreas and Saluador, and the Shield-Brethren slowed their horses. By letting the riders come to them, they were allowing a little more distance between this group and the remainder of the company.
Andreas loosened his sword in its sheath, and Saluador plucked an arrow from his quiver and laid it and his bow across his thighs.
Up close, Andreas’s evaluation of the riders didn’t improve. Two of the three wore maille shirts, and in both cases, the chain was dull and stained. The other man wore a simple leather vest with no protection on the arms. Several swords, a hatchet, and a couple of knives between the three of them. They all wore unkempt beards, streaked with dirt and sweat.
“Ho, travelers,” Andreas called out in the linga franca when the trio came into earshot.
The riders came to a halt, two falling in behind the one in the vest. “A good afternoon to you,” the one in the leather said. “This is a somewhat out-of-the-way place to meet other travelers, especially those who appear to be hauling goods over the mountains.”
“That we are,” Andreas said.
“This is not the road to Toulouse,” the man said. “Are you lost, perhaps?”
“No, our man knows where he is going.”
“And where is that?”
Andreas said nothing, and after a moment, the man nodded. “This is a narrow road,” he pointed out. “One of us should yield to the other.”
“Agreed,” Andreas said. “It would be easier for your company to divert their course temporarily.”
The man smiled, revealing stained teeth. “Would it be?” he said. “Is that what you think?”
Andreas nodded. “It is, which is why I suggested it. Our wagons are much less nimble than horses.” He glanced at Saluador.
“It seems very rude of me to suggest an improbable solution, don’t you think? Especially to some gentlemen I have just met.”
Saluador nodded. “Yes, that does seem rude.”
Andreas returned his attention to the three men, sparing a quick glance at the rest of the approaching company, gauging their distance. “I was not attempting to be rude, good man,” he said, “and yet you find my suggestion impertinent.”
“Impertinent?” The man looked at his fellows, repeating the word again as if he found its sound to be humorous. “What is in those wagons, friend?” he asked, turning back to Andreas.
“You presume much with that question,” Andreas replied, the levity gone from his voice.
The man nodded slowly, stroking his chin. “I guess I do.”
Andreas sighed. “I had hoped for more civility,” he said. He was about to say something else when he heard the sound of a horse coming up from behind him, and quickly too.
“Wait!” Jacobi pulled hard on the reins of his horse, bringing the animal to a dust-stirring halt beside the Shield-Brethren. The trader’s face was pinched heavily, and he sat at an angle in the saddle, his left hip canted upward.
“Aah, Jacobi de Reyns,” the leather-clad man said. “I thought it might be you.” His eyes flickered toward Andreas. “Your escort is a bit…discourteous.”
Jacobi held up his hands. “They are overprotective, Martis. That is all.”
“You know this man?” Andreas asked.
“Of course he does,” Saluador snorted, reading the situation more clearly than Andreas. “This is a regular assignation. It would appear that this road has a toll associated with it.”
Martis screwed up his face at Saluador’s words, but he didn’t disagree with what had been said.
“Is this true?” Andreas asked Jacobi. “Do you pay this man on every trip?”
“No…not every trip,” the trader sputtered.
Martis laughed. “Only because sometimes he sneaks along a different road, but the captain keeps track, doesn’t he, Jacobi? He knows how often you come and go.”
“It’s not like that,” Jacobi said to Andreas.
“No?” Andreas said, trying to keep his anger in check. “Why didn’t you say something when you hired us? Why didn’t you tell me of this arrangement when we reached the bridge? Why did you let me ride ahead and meet these men without foreknowledge of your relationship?” He didn’t expect Jacobi to answer, for he knew the trader’s reasons. Jacobi had hoped he and the other Shield-Brethren would either scare these men off or get drawn into a battle with them—one that Jacobi hoped the Shield-Brethren would win, thereby ridding this route of its pernicious toll collectors.
All without having to reveal his own culpability in the matter.
“I can explain,” Jacobi started. “Please, this is all a misunderstanding.”
“Aye,” Andreas answered. “It most certainly is.” He nodded to Saluador. “We should have never taken this commission.” He jerked his reins. “Good luck, Jacobi de Reyns. My men and I are going to return to Barcelona. We will not be accompanying you any farther.”
Saluador held his tongue until they were out of earshot of the trader and the trio of horsemen. “We’re going to walk away?” he said to Andreas. His horse was close and he loomed over Andreas.
“We don’t fight because someone pays us to,” Andreas said. “Did he pay us less than he typically pays those men? Were we a bargain? Even at double what he offered?”
“Of course we are,” Saluador pointed out. “Once those men are dead, he doesn’t have to pay the toll anymore. If he paid more for us on this trip, he’ll make it up on the next one.”
“We’re not hired killers,” Andreas snapped.
Saluador leaned over and grabbed at Andreas’s reins, pulling both horses to a halt. “No, we’re not,” the tall Spaniard said. “But who are we?”
Andreas stared at him, fuming. He did not care for the other man’s tone or words, but they could not be easily dismissed. Saluador was right. The Shield-Brethren had taken money from Jacobi in return for protection on the road. To not give aid when it was needed was to be as villainous as the men who sought to extort money from Jacobi.
“Domingo put you in charge,” Saluador said, “even though you have no ties to this region. You are a Brother to us, Andreas, even though you are not kin, and though we are not your kin, I ask you to think of these lands as yours.”
Andreas shaded his eyes and peered at the other man. “Would I suffer bandits such as these in my lands?” he said. “Is that what you are asking me?”
“Aye,” Saluador said. “Would you?”
Andreas lowered his hand and looked down the road at the wagons crossing the bridge. The last one was halfway across the narrow span. Saluador was right, of course, but the manner in which the Shield-Brethren had been taken advantage of bothered him. Their own pedigree had been leveraged against them, forcing them into a course of action that—while well-intentioned—was not one of their choosing.
Such courses of action had a tendency to be deadly.
But then an idea blossomed in his mind, and he smiled at Saluador. “My pride has muddled my thinking,” he said. “I told Jacobi we would not be accompanying him on the remainder of his journey, but by my accounting, Jacobi owes us the other half of our commission. I think we should hold on to these wagons as collateral until he can pay us.”
“I fear your thinking is still muddled,” Saluador said.
“Patience, good Saluador.” Andreas patted the other man on the shoulder. “Ready yourself and wait for my signal. All will become clear in time.”
When Harald had pulled Andreas aside, Jacobi had suspected it was because Martis’s band had been spotted, and while the wagons continued their torturous crawl up the switchbacks, he had conducted a lengthy conversation with himself about what was going to happen when the two groups met. He suspected it would happen after the bridge, and when Andreas and Saluador rode ahead, he let them go without a word. But his decision did not sit well, and when one of the wagon wheels slipped off the bridge and it was Guillén who scrambled beneath the wagon to bolster it until the wheel could be guided back on the bridge, he realized he could not stomach his own cowardice. As soon as the wagon reached solid ground again, he spurred his horse toward Andreas and Saluador.
He arrived in the nick of time, inserting himself between Martis and the Shield-Brethren. Doing so, he knew he would reveal his intentions to be entirely what Andreas and the rest thought they had been. And he had deserved the scathing glance Andreas had given him when the Shield-Brethren had abandoned him. Yes, he had thought, I am that sort of man. I lied to you. I brought you here under false pretenses. I expected you to kill these men because I was too weak to stand up to them.
But what could he have done otherwise? When caught in the midst of a tryst with an unmarried girl, he had fled. When faced with losing his livelihood, he had run away. When his wife had been taken, he had stood by and watched. How was this any different?
And the thought that made him consider driving his horse over the nearby cliff was the sad realization that he had let Constansa down. She had asked him to bring the Rose Knights to Estartyol, and he had failed to do that too.
“Well,” Martis said, scratching at his thin beard. “I don’t entirely know what you were hoping to accomplish there, Jacobi, but it seems like it didn’t work out so well for you.”
“No,” Jacobi said quietly, his eyes still on the cliff edge. “Very little has.”
“Now, I suspect the captain won’t take too kindly that you were trying to upset our little arrangement.”
“I suspect he won’t,” Jacobi said.
“Maybe I won’t tell him,” Martis said. “What do you think about that?”
“I suspect you’ll do whatever you want,” Jacobi said, finally turning his gaze toward Martis.
“That I shall.” Martis grinned.
One of the other men said something, calling Martis
’s attention toward the road, and when Martis’s grin slipped off his face, Jacobi finally pulled himself out of his misery and looked as well.
His wagons were coming down the road. As were the Shield-Brethren. In fact, Andreas was sitting on the front wagon’s bench, leading the caravan.
“What’s this?” Martis snapped when the caravan slowed to a halt in front of them. “I thought you said you were going back to Barcelona.”
“We are,” Andreas said. “After we visit Estartyol. One of my companions, Guillén, says there is decent fishing in the lake there.” He waved a hand at Martis. “You and your men are blocking the road, sir.”
Jacobi turned his head and noted that the remainder of Martis’s party had ridden up behind the trio of riders. They milled about; having missed the earlier exchange, they were unsure of what was transpiring.
He was confused too. Andreas’s pronouncement had seemed rather final.
“It is those wagons,” Martis pointed out. “If you were not encumbered with them, we would not be having this confusion.”
“These wagons?” Andreas looked behind him. “Oh, yes, these. Well, we found them back at the bridge there, sadly abandoned by their owner. He even left several drivers behind—is that not a travesty? They tell us that we could probably sell these wagons—and their goods—at a reasonable price in Estartyol.”
“These are your wagons?” Martis asked in a slightly strangled voice.
“Yes, they are,” Andreas said without a trace of guile in his voice.
“What is going on?” Martis snapped at Jacobi.
Jacobi had raised a hand to his mouth to hide the fact that his lips kept trying to quirk into a smile, but he lowered his hand now. “I appear to have lost my wagons,” he said as contritely as possible. “I had no idea these men I had hired would turn out to be such ruffians. Frankly, I am shocked to discover—”
“Shut up,” Martis snapped. He glowered at Jacobi for a second, as if trying to understand the trader’s role in this confusion. Still fingering the hilt of his sword, he swung his head toward Andreas. “There is a toll on this road,” he said.
